Dog Eat Dog
by SkinwalkerSkiddo
Summary: Daryl is attacked by something other than walkers while out hunting.


_Author Notes: This is a fill I did for a prompt on the kinkmeme a while back.  
_

_I'm not much of a writer. I'm sure that there are loads of mistakes, with both facts and with grammar, so I apologize in advance for those. This is just a gory and fluffy romp through the Walking Dead 'verse. I've screwed around with the timeline so more time has passed between Judith being born and the group's first encounter with Woodbury._

––

Game was getting harder to come by as winter crept up on the land around the prison. Daryl had been leaving before dawn each morning to hunt for the past week but so far he'd only downed a few squirrels and rabbits (scrawny as fuck little things too) and a scraggly hen turkey. There were more ragged, dirty feathers on her than there was meat so she had hardly been worth the effort it took to clean her.

A combination of the weather turning bad early and a world full of ravenous walkers made for pretty damn lousy hunting.

Their stores were still holding fairly well but they needed to make them last as long as possible, especially with the coming winter months. The addition of fresh meat would stretch the non-perishable goods out longer and every little bit counted when you never knew what tomorrow would bring. And to be perfectly honest, Daryl was glad for something to do to get away from the confines of the prison for a while.

The people in his group didn't get on his nerves as much these days. Together they operated like the parts of a well-oiled machine, each with a job to do to keep the whole unit functioning. They'd lost people. Too many people but that had only served to draw those who remained closer. There was a lot less of the bickering and drama of the early days and that suited Daryl just fine. Now they all knew what they had to do to survive and keep each other alive. They were a team. A family.

He still found himself being overwhelmed by that. Daryl had never been a part of a functional family so he still had a lot to learn about what all it entailed. His momma had died when he was a kid and his pa had been gone more often than not. When the man was around he was a terrifying and vicious drunk that swung his fists at anything that set him off. Daryl had more than enough scars to remind him of those days. Merle was okay when he was around and wasn't strung out on meth but he'd left his fair share of marks on his younger brother too.

Ah, the good old days.

The shadows around him were starting to grow long as Daryl stood up from checking the last trap, his knees stiff and popping from the cold. The snare hadn't been touched. Again. The perfect end to another useless day. He spat and cursed before picking up his crossbow and turning to head back to the prison for the night. It was going to be another bitterly cold one if the sharp wind cutting through the trees was anything to go by. There were some ominous clouds rolling in from the north.

The hair on the back of Daryl's neck rose when a deep, rumbling growl filled the air behind him. Walker was his first thought but as he spun around it wasn't a two-legged monster that greeted him. No, this one had four legs.

The German Shepherd was enormous. Must have been a guard dog or a cop's extra muscle when there was still a world for that. Now its fur was matted with cockleburs and mud. Its ears were ripped and one no longer stood up-right. White teeth were bared and its desperate eyes were locked on Daryl.

The dog's hackles were up and its feet were braced, ready for attack. The mess of a coat disguised a lot but the dog was emaciated. Daryl knew all too well how little game was left in these woods.

He faced the dog, moving slow and steady as he settled a bolt into his crossbow. The dog was trembling with adrenaline and the need for the hunt. For food.

For a moment, Daryl felt sorry for the animal. Humanity had domesticated it, loved it, and then abandoned it in a cruel world it didn't understand. It still had a collar and tags on. Dirty little metal things punched out in the shape of a bone. There was a name on them but he was too far away to read it.

The dog had probably been left on its own while its owners died and came back. Hell, they'd probably tried to rip the animal apart but some how it had made it.

This far, anyway.

As Daryl brought the bow up and took aim another low snarl ripped through the air behind him, much closer than the German Shepherd. And then there was another growl to his left.

"Fuck."

He breathed out slowly and just as he fired a flash of heat and sharp pain slammed into his left leg, knocking it out from under him and sending the arrow flying wild. He crashed to the ground and the wind was knocked out of him with the impact.

The mutt responsible for bringing him down was massive with thick, corded muscles straining on its spotted neck as it clamped onto Daryl's leg and shook its head. Slick white fangs buried into the flesh of Daryl's calf and he gasped, frantically trying to suck air back into lungs that didn't want to cooperate.

He kicked at the dog's head with his free right foot. His booted heel connected with the dog's skull with a crack of bone and a high-pitched yelp but there was blood in the air and the others were on him now. Hunger and fear had driven them wild with desperation and they weren't about to let the chance of a meal get away easily.

The German Shepherd lunged, followed by some small, wiry hound, its skin bloody and raw with horrible mange. They all had collars on. Pets gone wild.

Growls and snarls were muffled by denim and flesh as jaws clamped onto Daryl. The hound had gone for his leg but he scrambled back and kicked it off, only to have the German Shepherd go for his throat. He swung his crossbow at it but the angle was bad and he couldn't get enough force behind it to completely knock the dog off course. His bow went skittering through the leaf litter and mud as teeth sank into his shoulder. He roared in pain and anger, shoving his fist against the dog's throat.

The German Shepherd's hot breath gurgled with the blood welling up in its mouth. It shook its head viciously and Daryl's entire body moved across the forest floor with the force of it. He could hear and feel the skin and muscle in his shoulder tearing. His heart beat pounded in his ears and panic shot through him. He scrambled for the big hunting knife on his hip but the other two dogs were back up and on him again.

It was chaos. Daryl yelled and kicked and swung his fists, sometimes connecting with his attackers, sometimes punching the air, while the three dogs scrambled all over him, teeth and claws tearing and ripping. He had to get up before one finally succeeded in latching on to his throat.

The scent of his blood was thick and heavy in the air. But goddammit, he'd survived this long and there was no fucking way he was going out as doggy chow.

Bloody fingers finally latched onto the knife at his side and he swung it viciously at the nearest dog with a snarl of his own. The blade sank into the skull of the mangy hound and it dropped instantly.

He managed to shove the other two off long enough to scramble to his feet but they were still coming. They had their shining teeth bared, bloody drool gleaming in what was left of the light. Daryl limped backwards and the spotted mutt dove for his injured leg again. Daryl lost his footing trying to kick it away and fell again but he held onto the knife and lashed out, driving it deep into the dog's chest. With a yelp of agony it fell away and then the German Shepherd was back, crazed and more vicious than ever in its desperation.

He swung the knife again while the dog's jaws were snapping at his hands and arms. Teeth clamped onto a couple fingers and jerked them backwards with a rip of skin and a loud snap, snap. Daryl howled in pain and he shoved the serrated blade deep into the animal's shoulder where it glanced off bone and stuck fast but the dog kept coming, running on pure instinct and the drive for survival.

Daryl's scrabbling hands met the dog's collar. Despite the pain of his broken fingers he grabbed the nylon collar with both hands and twisted, using all of his strength to pull it tight. His bloody knuckles were white and the muscles in his arms trembled with the effort and exhaustion but he held fast. Silver tags flashed next to his face. "Killer," stamped in small, neat font.

For fuck's sake.

The dog grunted and choked. Its teeth were crushing into Daryl's shoulder and it was unwilling to let go to breathe.

Finally, after long moments, shuddering from blood loss and starved for oxygen, the dog collapsed on top of Daryl. Its eyes rolled as it panted and wheezed, sucking air into a ruined throat. With a groan, Daryl rolled it off of him and clambered to his feet. His crossbow was several yards away but he staggered towards it.

An arrow through the dog's skull ended the wheezing breathes and Darryl collapsed beside the German Shepherd's body, clutching his crossbow against him and grimacing in pain.

"Jesus Christ."

His chest heaved as he sucked in ragged breaths and big plumes of steam fogged the air above him with each exhale. He stared up at bare tree limbs and tried to catalogue his injuries while he gathered his strength. Too many to really keep up with but his shoulder and leg were on fire and slick with steaming blood. Felt like he might have busted some ribs with that first fall as well. And a broken ring and little finger too, wasn't that just peachy.

As loathe as he always was to admit when he need help, he knew damn well that he needed it now.

It took all of his grit and hard-headed, Dixon determination to drag himself up to his feet because like fuck was he going to stay out here all night and bleed to death. Or freeze to death. Or turn into Walker dinner.

He yanked his knife out of the dead dog and headed for home.

––

It took Daryl over an hour to get back the prison but he finally made it. It was starting to sleet and the injured man's hair and shoulders were dusted with ice and snow. The shock from his injuries and being soaked with mud and his own blood had set his teeth to chattering and his muscles were trembling badly from exhaustion.

Distantly, he heard cries and shouts from the guard tower. A few shots fired off to take out the handful of Walkers, stiff and moving sluggishly with the cold, around the fence before they could turn their attention to the approaching feast. Good thing whoever was on watch noticed that Daryl was still dragging his crossbow behind him and took it as a sign of life otherwise he might have gone down with a headshot too.

He would have been so fucking pissed if someone tried to pull that shit again.

A couple of minutes later he was surrounded by familiar faces. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it and managed to pick out Rick's gruff barks of "Were you bit?"

A choked off snort of a laugh. "Not by no fuckin' Walker." His words were slurred and he staggered back, shoving half-heartedly at someone that grabbed at his arm.

"He looks like he's been mauled, man."

"Come on, we need to get him inside. It's freezing out here and he's lost a lot of blood. Carl, go tell Hershel and Carol to get the medical kit out. Glenn, give me a hand with him."

Darkness began creeping in around the edges of Daryl's vision and he dropped to his knees but soon felt fingers digging into his armpits and hefting him back up. He couldn't help a sharp gasp when someone grabbed at his injured ribs. One pair of hands jerked away.

"Shit, I don't even know where to touch him!"

"Just get him inside."

––

"Daryl, you've got to be still."

Daryl woke up as a grunt of pain slipped past his lips before he could stop it. Carol was leaning over him, stitching up the last of the ragged tears in his shoulder. The scent of disinfectant was sharp in his nostrils. A heavy arm was stretched across his bare chest to hold him down. Must'a been putting up a fuss. Christ, Merle had always been right, he was such a little bitch sometimes…

"Hush, it's okay, I'm almost done. Daryl? What did this to you?" Carol asked softly, her warm breath fanning against his skin.

He coughed to clear the grit out of his throat and a bottle of water was pressed against his lips. He drank deeply then leaned back again.

"I guess there ain't no such thing as man's best friend no more." His voice was raspy but at least his words weren't slurred.

"A dog? A fucking dog did this? Christ, what happened?" Rick, his voice close. Daryl blinked to clear the haze from his eyes (they must have given him something for the pain - that shit always made him foggy) and realized it was Rick holding him down with an arm across his chest. Daryl flushed with embarrassment at being so exposed but he nodded.

"Three of 'em. I'd just finished checking my last trap and they jumped me. They all looked like they used to be somebody's pets. Had collars 'n everything."

He winced as Carol finished tying off the last stitch. She gave him a small smile and leaned back, as did Rick. Daryl reached for the sheet around his waist and pulled it up to his neck. The tips of his ears burned when he realized they had already stripped him to clean the other wounds.

He just couldn't catch a goddamn break today.

"Looks like they tried to eat you alive. We got you to swallow a couple of antibiotics and painkillers while you were out but you'll need to keep taking those for a while." Hershel was sitting behind Carol in an old chair that creaked loudly as he leaned forward. "You've got a couple of cracked ribs so we'll need to make sure you don't end up with pneumonia. And we'll need to watch for signs of rabies."

Daryl snorted and moved to sit up but Carol and Rick both reached out to stop him. He bit back a yelp when he put weight on the hand with broken fingers, which had been taped and set in splints. That and the pain in his shoulder and side was more than enough to make him decide to stay still for now. "Nah none of 'em were frothing at the mouth or nothing. Just stupid pets that were hungry and desperate. One of 'em looked like fucking Rin-Tin-Tin."

"Still, you need to get some rest and take it easy for a while. The bites on your leg were very deep and the ones on your shoulder are a mess. Carol and Hershel got them all good and clean and stitched up the worst ones though so you'll be on the mend soon." Rick squeezed Daryl's sheet-covered foot gently and Daryl's toes curled instinctively away from the touch.

"You've gotta quite giving us scares like that. Glenn thought you were another Walker when you first came out of the woods."

"Well tell 'im that I appreciate him not shooting me. Been there and done that." Daryl grumbled and shifted. Uncomfortable with all the hovering and growing tired despite his best attempts to remain alert, he sank further under the sheet.

Carol unfolded another blanket, spreading it carefully over the injured man. She ran her fingers through Daryl's hair and leaned down to kiss his forehead quickly before he could move away. He made a noise of protest at the mothering but she ignored him. "You rest now. One of us will be close by if you need anything." She patted his hip through the bedding before turning to offer Hershel help up out of the chair. The two left the cell, leaving Rick behind with Daryl.

"You really had us worried, Daryl." He moved the bottle of water and another blanket within reach in case Daryl decided he wanted them. "Get some sleep. I'll be right outside."

All this TLC was still overwhelming and Daryl heaved a sigh once he was alone in the cell. He shifted and fidgeted for a few minutes in an attempt to get acquainted with his injuries and try to find a comfortable position to lay in that wouldn't aggravate them. Finally curling up with his injured hand propped against the pillow beside his head, he shut his eyes and sank into the deep sleep of the heavily medicated.

––

Hershel pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose and rubbed his forehead. "Cases of people getting rabies from dogs in the US are very rare. Were very rare. There were less that fifty in the last ten years if I remember correctly. Now Daryl said that they all had collars and tags so they were pets at some point and had most likely been vaccinated. Those rabies vaccines are generally good for a few years. We may have just lucked out here. "

"How long would it take for Daryl to start showing symptoms if the dogs were rabid?" Rick was pacing.

Hershel shook his head. "That's the problem. Usually symptoms will appear in a few days but sometimes it can take a year. And once symptoms do show, there's nothing that can be done. It's almost always fatal."

Rick stilled. "So we've just got to hope for the best? There's nothing we can do?"

"A series of vaccines would have to be started immediately but it's not like we can exactly pop down to the clinic and pick up a round of them."

Rick growled and kicked out at a empty storage crate, cursing loudly. Hershel waved a hand in an attempt to placate him. "Rick, I really think we might be okay here. Dogs with rabies froth at the mouth and act erratically. They don't form a pack to take down prey. These animals were pets at one point. They were starving and banded together to hunt, but I don't think they were rabid."

The older man put a hand on Rick's shoulder. "Daryl's tough and at least we've got enough antibiotics to keep him on them for a while."

Rick nodded, hands going to rest on his hips. "So we just watch and wait."

––

Daryl drifted in and out of the heavy sleep that clung him. His blood felt like it had been drained out of him and replaced with molasses. His dreams were strange and vivid.

He heard soft murmurs and shuddered as a warm, damp cloth rubbed gently at his face and neck, leaving prickling, chilled skin in its wake before the blankets were drawn up again.

Some time later his head was filled with visions of lolling rotten tongues and milky white eyes. Decomposing hands and claws reaching, grabbing. Dead dogs lunging and biting down hard.

He jerked awake and cursed.

As if he wasn't already well stocked on nightmare fuel, now there were fucking Walker dogs in the mix.

Well fuck that.

Daryl rolled onto his back with a groan. He really needed to piss. Rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his uninjured hand he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, grunting with the effort. Shit. He felt like he'd been asleep for a month. After having been run over by a train. A train with teeth.

There were a pair of too-large flannel pajama pants and a soft, threadbare t-shirt folded on the table beside him. Staying seated on the edge of the bed, he reached for the pants and gingerly pulled them on over the bandage on his leg. After peaking under the white gauze he could see that the stitches were neat and the wounds looked like they were starting to heal well. No angry red swelling spreading out around them.

He rolled his shoulders to try and work out some of the stiffness in them before reaching for the shirt. It was harder to get on and he cursed his aching ribs more than a few times but he finally squirmed into it.

When he pulled the collar past his head he noticed his Scout. The crossbow was nice and clean and propped against the wall across from him. His hunting knife was in its sheath and laying on the floor next to the bow. Along with his boots, also free of mud.

He couldn't help the small, crooked smile that tugged on his chapped lips.

––

He found most of the group in the cafeteria that they'd cleared and set up as a sort of wreck room. Maggie, Glenn, and Carl were putting a few things together for a meal while Carol fed baby Judith a bottle. Beth was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Carol. She had a small sewing kit propped on one knee and was working on mending a few things including a coat with quite a lot of damage that looked very familiar. Daryl's shirt must have not been worth saving.

It was a ridiculously peaceful scene. So of course Rick and Hershel chose that moment to come around the corner and give away his presence to the others. Who all seemed to be in a contest with each other over who could smother Daryl the most. Carol won when she made him sit down and started shoving food, drink, and pills at him and fussing with his bandages.

He ate dinner with the rest of the group later that night. Carl was practically vibrating with energy and Daryl was having a hard time remembering how long it had been since he'd seen the kid act so much like, well, a kid. Definitely not since his mom died.

The boy sat right next to Daryl, spilling out question after question about what had happened. These days it was apparently very exciting to be attacked by monsters that were still alive and that wouldn't kill you with one bite.

Rick, who'd been preoccupied trying to tempt Judith into eating some mashed up canned peas, finally took pity on Daryl and reached out to clamp a hand over his son's mouth. "Alright now, let the man rest and enjoy his supper for a minute."

Carl looked embarrassed when Rick pulled his hand back but the boy nodded and glanced sheepishly back at Daryl. "Sorry."

Daryl snorted and gave Carl a playful shove. "S'alright, kid. Ain't much more to tell, really. But the next Fido that comes along lookin' for trouble had best run the other way or we'll be havin' dog for dinner."

A chorus of "eww's" sprang up from Beth and Maggie's side of the table and Carl laughed.

––

The next afternoon Glenn and Maggie, who were evidently on baby patrol, brought a whimpering and squirming Judith into the cell Daryl was laid up in. Maggie looked tired but she grinned at him. "She's been fussy all day. I think she knows that her Uncle Daryl's not feeling so hot."

Sure enough, the baby shrieked with delight at seeing the older man, her fat little arms reaching towards him. Maggie set her down in Daryl's lap and Glenn handed over a small cloth doll that had been picked up somewhere along the way.

Daryl wrapped an arm around the baby – she was still getting the hang of the whole sitting up and crawling thing – to make sure she didn't get too close to the edge of the bed. "Givin' them all hell, huh, darlin'? Atta girl."

Judith gurgled happily and tipped forward, curling up against Daryl's chest and closing her eyes. She shoved a few fingers from one hand into her mouth but the other little fist was wrapped tightly in the fabric of Daryl's shirt.

Maggie gave up trying to hide her smile as she watched them. Glenn chuckled quietly. "Looks like we've been relieved of duty for a while."

Daryl glared and hissed softly at them. "Scram, you two. Can't you see that Little Ass Kicker needs her beauty sleep?"

Maggie's arm slid around Glenn's waist as she pulled him towards the doorway. "You could stand some yourself, Dixon. We'll check on ya'll in a little while. Let us know if you need anything."

There was a damp patch of drool forming on his chest already but Daryl decided that he didn't mind. Holding the baby against him, he gently eased back into the nest of pillows and bedding behind him and pulled a blanket up over the both of them. He drifted in and out of a light doze for a while but kept an ear out for any sign of distress and a hand on Judith's warm little back to make sure she didn't wander too far.

Even he had to admit it was a sickeningly sweet moment.

He knew he'd never hear the end of it from Maggie and Glenn (and hell, probably everyone else with those two blabbermouths involved) but fuck it. Daryl was tired and sore and Judith wasn't squalling anymore so that was good enough for him.

––

Hershel, Rick, and Carol all kept a close watch on the injured man for the next few days. Besides sleeping extra hours, limping around at a snail's pace, and being generally more short-tempered than usual, Daryl seemed to be healing well.

However, much to their dismay, the cabin fever that he was developing was manifesting itself in some truly unfortunate ways. There had been a half-assed attempt at a prank which involved far too much wasted toothpaste (which wasn't exactly easy to come by these days) for a Rabid Daryl scare.

Sadly no one but the aforementioned Rabid Daryl had found it very funny.

––

Daryl had planned to take the stitches out himself but Carol caught him just as he was trying to figure out the best angle to reach the ones on his shoulder. He couldn't refuse the pleading look she gave him, not after all she'd done for him. Something in his chest twisted at the warm smile on her face when he didn't put up too much of a fight.

In all of Daryl's life there had never been anyone that touched him with more gentle hands than Carol. She cared about him and he was finally learning how to not run from that affection.

Still, he twitched like a flighty colt when cool fingertips first touched his bare skin. Carol didn't comment – which he appreciated – and went to work.

The mess on his shoulder took a while but Carol had become quite an expert at this sort of thing. Hershel was a good teacher and she was a quick learner.

When his shoulder was done she picked up his hand and inspect the fingers still taped in splints.

"These will have to stay on a few more weeks. They were pretty bad breaks so those fingers will probably give you trouble for a while even after they heal."

With a frown, she carefully prodded at his ribs next. They were sore and the skin over them was stained a dark purple but they were healing and his lungs sounded clear when he breathed. She moved on to tend to a few small lacerations on his sides and forearms. There were half a dozen or so that just had a few of stitches in them scattered across skin still discolored from deep bruising. Lastly, she focused on his leg.

Carol was careful and fast and soon Daryl was starring down at the ragged red lines that were the beginnings of his newest scars. One in particular caught his eye because it criss-crossed an old white scar his daddy had given him with a belt buckle.

"Hey," Carol scrubbed her fingers through his hair and her thumb brushed against his ear as she tilted his head up. "Please be careful."

Daryl gave her a lop-sided smile. "No promises. 'Sides, I gotta give you something to do to keep from gettin' bored."

She swatted him on the chest and huffed in exasperation.

But she was smiling.

––

Daryl had teased Carol about getting bored but he quickly found his words coming back to bite him in the ass. He was twitchy with pent up energy but still too banged up to do much about it.

So he started with baby steps.

After using up the last of the feathers from that old hen turkey he'd shot to fletch some new arrows, he had started cleaning and repairing every weapon he could get his hands on. Then he made a several day project out of servicing the generators to make sure they were in top shape. Rick offered his assistance and made sure Daryl didn't bend over to retrieve any tools or strain himself by reaching too far into the machines. Daryl complained loudly and often about this.

The two would work until Rick noticed Daryl starting to sway on his feet and then he would herd and harass and prod until Daryl found himself back on his cot with food and pills and a hot water bottle.

Daryl started calling him Nurse Grimes.

A few more days passed and he started sneaking outside for patrol and to check on fences. And to get in a little Walker target practice with Carl and Maggie. They'd all three gotten pretty good at pissing off the dead loiterers with some slingshots Daryl had made during his earlier days of boredom (after the toothpaste joke had failed so horribly). Glenn just shook his head when he first found them all sitting around with little piles of gravel ammunition at their feet but he was quick to join in the game.

When the Walkers started getting too riled up over the abuse Daryl tested out his arrows on them.

The weather warmed for a few days and he worked on the cars and tinkered with Merle's bike (it would always be Merle's bike) until he caught himself making up problems that needed to be fixed.

He was puttering around just like an old man, trying to find anything to pass the time.

Then he'd even cooked most of the group's meals for a few days.

He had to get out and do something before he lost his damn mind.

Finally, after several weeks had passed, Daryl was well on the mend. No sign of illness or infection. His ribs weren't as sore anymore, most of the bruising had faded, and best of all, he finally got to take the fucking splints off his fingers.

He burned those damn things. With manic glee.

The others could only keep him cooped up in the prison for so long. Carol and Hershel finally gave up trying to corral him any longer and gave him a clean bill of health.

He knew just what to do to celebrate.

––

It felt good to be back in the fresh air.

A dark layer of clouds hung heavy in the sky overhead as Daryl picked his way through the thick undergrowth along the edge of a creek. It was still cold as shit but he was glad to be in his element again. All the sitting around was making him anxious and he needed to feel useful again.

He stepped gingerly through the leaf litter and mud. There were some very promising tracks along this old game trail. But he'd followed enough trails that ended with a Walker-gnawed carcass to know not to get his hopes up yet. Briars caught and pulled at his pant legs now and then but he moved steadily past them. The cold air burned his nose and lungs but he kept his breathing smooth and even. His senses were on high alert.

A twig snapped. Daryl stopped.

He crouched down, trying to pinpoint where the sound had come from. He could hear something moving through foliage, making low, rumbling snorts as it went. Then he saw movement about fifty feet to his right in a small clearing.

Daryl gaped. He'd just been following the tracks but seeing the animal actually alive and not ruined by Walkers was a rare sight to behold.

It was a pig. But not just any pig. It was a fucking massive pig. Big black and white spots covered its scarred hide and a mane of coarse hair sprouted down its thick neck. It looked like some cross between the wiry wild boar that used to roam all around this part of the country and a domestic hog that had escaped its pen.

It snorted and rooted through the dirt, pulling out a fat worm and gobbling it down before hunting for more. Impressively long and viciously sharp cutter teeth curved out from its muddy lips.

This was one badass motherfucker. And it had Daryl's name written all over it.

He loaded one of his few remaining bolts with a sharp metal broad-head tip, made especially for taking down deer and boar.

He took aim.

Suddenly there was an explosion of activity. The hog let out an ear-splitting squeal and charged straight towards Daryl as a Walker stumbled out from the thicket behind it, grabbing for the animal and missing, its movement slowed by the cold. Daryl held steady and kept his sight on the pig. He exhaled slowly.

A bolt shot through the air and hit the animal dead center between its eyes.

The pig crashed to the ground while Daryl was loading another arrow for the Walker that was dragging itself through the clearing. His fingers were stiff but he still got the bow ready easily enough.

The Walker had spotted him and was staggering his way, arms out-stretched and rotten mouth gaping. It managed several more steps before it went down with a burst of putrid gore erupting from a ruined eye socket.

Baring his teeth in a wild grin, Daryl scrambled towards the downed hog.

This was providing for his people. They took care of him and he had decided that he would gladly spend the rest of his days doing the same for them. For his group.

For his family.

––

Daryl swore that if he heard one more goddamn joke about bringing home the fucking bacon or someone being in hog heaven he was going to strangle them all.

––

END


End file.
